Confidentiality
by AllegroAssai
Summary: Set after DH. Ignores epilogue. SSHG angsty romance, no fluff at all. The Death Eaters want revenge. One last time. And they get their wish. Rated M for rape, torture and the swearing that goes with it. Special thanks to my beta WHITEHOUND.
1. Revenge

_"__I could not eat as much as I would like to vomit"_

(Max Liebermann)

* * *

'So,' purred Macnair while examining Severus' body. 'I do have to admit that I am surprised. You managed to deceive the Dark Lord. What a _genius_ you are, Severus. Don't we all agree that it would have been better if you had offered your gifts to the right side?'

Amycus Carrow and Matteo Crabbe nodded thoughtfully.

They blamed him for Voldemort's fall. Without doubt. Yesterday night, Crabbe had lost his son Vincent, Amycus his sister Alecto. Both would go to Azkaban very soon or spend the rest of their petty lives in hiding. Crabbe would not be able to manage this time to convince the ministry that he'd been under the Imperius Curse. Neither would Carrow. They weren't intelligent enough to come up with anything new. And Macnair... the Death Penalty would be waiting for the psychopathic sadist who only managed to ejaculate when he was allowed to torture and kill defenseless creatures.

Today, they needed someone they could hold responsible for their misery. A scapegoat. And they had it. After returning from the Shack, Severus hadn't managed to recreate the Security Charms, he had instead been busy treating the gaping wound on his neck and drinking Blood Replenishers.

It had been Granger who gave him an antidote and poured Dittany over his neck while he was dying. Then she cast a Stasis Charm and left. He woke several hours later, mildly hypothermic and stiff. How he'd managed to apparate to Spinner's End was a mystery to him. But he had.

Not much later, the visitors had arrived. Disarmed him while they were still under a Disillusionment Charm. How cowardly. Severus had defended himself, he had struggled like an animal that tried to escape its trap, but there was only so much he could do. Without a wand and against three Death Eaters _with _a wand.

At some point, Carrow used a spell on him that slowed down all of his movements. Severus had once invented it.

'Severus!', Crabbe flung his right wrist and landed it with an ugly noise on his cheek. The man had always been strong.

'You should have protected my son and not Potter. POTTER!' Another blow. Severus lost his balance and found himself on the floor. They would kill him. Not that he minded, but he would have preferred a fast death.

He was no idiot, he did not try and pretend that he didn't fear the next few hours.

They all wanted revenge. One last time.

'I want you to crawl on the floor and beg for death. We won't give up before.' Amycus' face was a grimace of hatred.

'Good luck,' answered Severus calmly, surprised that his voice sounded steady. That he could hear sarcasm and no fear.

There was a shower of uncountable blows and kicks. Severus protected his face instinctively. Not that it had been very sightly. To no avail. A rib cracked, a finger broke, a wrist.

The wound on his neck reopened. Nagini's poison was cursed, how stupid he had been not to apparate to a hospital.

The Death Eaters were lost in a state of inebriation that was familiar to Severus. They would only stop once the victim was broken, mutilated and dead.

Determined, he concentrated on not making a single noise. His teeth creaked under the pressure.

Crabbe grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head up. 'You know Severus... you will get an entry in the Wizard's Book Of Records as the wizard who pegged out in the most miserable way imaginable.' Severus stared into watery eyes.

'At least I wasn't so idiotic as to perish in my own fiendfyre. Vincent obviously lacked the brain cells to remember the Counter...'

The blow was so violent that Severus saw blackness for several seconds. Pity. Not violent enough. He had hoped that the man would kill him with a single hit.

Amycus took his belt off, pointed his wand at Severus. His robe was pulled from his body, the shirt unbuttoned and flew to Crabbe. Who looked through the pockets.

'Awwwwwwwww,' rejoiced the heavy built man. 'Look at this. Not even the mudblood wanted to touch the Grease-Prince.'

Severus turned away when he heard them snicker and rip the picture apart.

'Twenty strokes,' announced Carrow ceremonially. 'Let's see if you'll be still on the ball.'

Severus tried to remember the last time he'd been _on the ball_. Long time ago.

They stared at his back. 'Ouch, someone has already done good work here. Were you not a good boy, Severus?'

The belt cut the air, then his back. His remaining teeth were pressed together.

'Two.'

No screaming. He wouldn't give them the pleasure. That seemed terribly important at the moment. Occlumency was obviously a gift from the past. Contrary to his bladder, his mind didn't want to empty.

He didn't count. Amycus left several strokes uncounted, too.

'Five.' Severus wondered, if they could see the bones on his back yet. There hadn't been much fat on his ribs. His appetite had bid farewell a long time a ago.

'Damnit,' spat Carrow and pointed his wand at the belt. Crabbe and Macnair jeered. Severus squinted at the buckle. It was razor sharp now.

'Scream!', demanded Macnair while he rubbed his privates.

'Never,' spat Severus and closed his eyes again.

Then Macnair jumped at him, turned him on his back, kicked his lower body with all his strength. Severus swallowed down an outcry that threatened to suffocate him. A puddle of hot blood and urine appeared under him and he fought hard to keep his face straight.

'Twenty.'

The belt had ripped apart his upper body. Severus must have been unconscious for quite a while.

'CRUCIO!', screeched Crabbe. Now he was awake again. His stomach rebelled but Severus didn't allow it to win. His eyes watered with the effort to suppress the gagging.

Only much much later would he remember the next minutes. They were filled with more blows, with insults so personal that his brain refused to hear them. His stomach finally gave in when he felt Macnair inside him, ripping him apart. The stinking breath, the whispering.

'Aguamenti!' Severus didn't react.

'He is dead! We gotta leave!'

He heard several curses that lit his house on fire. The last thing he saw was his Potions Cabinet and thousands of handwritten recipes and descriptions catching fire.


	2. Intensive Care

_"Hell is other people__."_

(Jean-Paul Sartre)

* * *

Severus didn't believe that he was waking. Why wasn't he allowed to die? He had tried to fulfill his duties, had done everything Dumbledore had demanded. Voldemort was dead, there was no reason for him to keep living. No family, no job, no house. He was nothing, had nothing, wanted nothing.

He didn't know where he was and wasn't particulary interested either.

His eyes opened slowly. That hurt, too. They were swollen, the room was blurry. And it was white, somewhat misty. Something above his head beeped. The monitor, which showed the function of all organs and the magical core, glowed yellow. He was in the intensive care unit in St Mungo's. His left arm was attached to a drip, his body covered with sticky salves. He felt dirty, wanted to stand up, couldn't.

A bushy head appeared in front of his eyes. Close. Too close. Granger. It was _she _who had given him the antidote, poured the Dittany over his head. Her fault that he lived. He tried to stab her with a glare, she wouldn't shy away. With a screeching noise, she pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat right beside him. The closeness was unbearable, almost worse than his helplessness. He really did hope she wouldn't touch him, he hated physical contact. Especially now.

'Professor,' she started quietly, 'I never thought you would wake up so fast.'

Severus avoided her glance, he didn't want to see the brown eyes filled with grief. She would know by now, that her parents were dead. Yaxley and Dolohov had found the Grangers. They did not die a merciful death.

He turned his head away when he felt panic rising. The monitor beeped louder. Granger would know what that meant. He hated himself for his weakness.

'You need to calm down, Professor.'

Severus grimaced. Facing the enemy, he stayed hard. Cold and emotionless, no matter which horror scene played back in front his eyes. He knew he would pay later, when the images caught up with him, followed him into his dreams and robbed him of his sleep. When Dumbledore was still alive, Severus could live with that. The old coot had always interrogated and demanded details until he knew everything. The whole truth. His reports had been rather painful and yet, they prevented him from losing his mind. Everything verbalised could be lived with.

After his death there had been no one to report to. The Death Eater meetings grew more and more unbearable. They went further each time, step by step. No one could convince Severus to see the good side of people any more. He had gained knowledge about the true nature of the human soul. He had witnessed people's ability to commit unspeakable atrocities without batting an eyelid. And he had felt it on his own body.

Besides, he had spent a whole year with the knowledge that he was helping Lily's son die. Hence, his secret theory that she might forgive him one day, collapsed. Dumbledore didn't think Severus fit to know that the boy might survive. The old man had sentenced him to a year in hell, had let him believe that he'd fought in vain. That Potter would die.

No, he could not calm down. Naked panic and desperation were making their way up his throat. He felt like suffocating. Where were his occlumency shields? He concentrated, without success. He might as well have tried to bring the dead back to life.

A hand touched his, he flinched and despised himself.

'Out,' whispered Severus. His voice sounded weak and trembling. She shook her head and pulled her hand away.

'You are not supposed to be alone. A healer will come soon, they are busy right now. The hospital is overcrowded.'

His breathing was heavy and rattling. It was so cold and yet he felt sweat on his forehead from the effort to keep his composure.

'Can you remember who did this?'

Of course he could. His skin was on fire. He could still smell Macnair's reeking breath. No, don't think of _that_.

He groaned and wanted to turn his body away from her. The brown eyes didn't want to let go of him. She sighed and opened his file.

'Third- and fourth degree burns on sixty percent of the skin surface. Nineteen fractures. Ruptured bladder. Anal fissure. Ruptured diaphragm. Lacerations on the back, legs and upper body.'

She paused, as if she was unable to decipher the writing and closed it again.

'By means of sperm traces Walden Macnair could be identified. He cannot be found at the moment.'

His hands trembled and he balled them to fists. That was sore, too. He couldn't even clench his teeth. The molars had cracked under the pressure of keeping silent. No air got into his lungs. They contracted as if he was having an asthma attack. His breath was wheezing and he swore quietly.

'I resuscitated you for one hour until somebody came. The muggle way. I know you don't want to live. But I need to know who it was.'

He glared at her. Why did she tell him all this? Why couldn't she leave him alone?

'Okay,' she said, leaning back. 'Who killed my parents?'

Did she not know that he was unable to speak right now?

'Macnair?' The name made him shudder, but he shook his head.

'Yaxley?'

A nod.

'Goyle?' No.

She named them all, without considering the fact that those names reminded him of things he did not want to remember.

Then she had them. Granger seemed satisfied that her parent's murderers were both dead.

The same procedure now for those who had tortured him. She didn't stop until she had all the names.

The panic had now arrived in his throat and strangled him. Then everything went black. Convulsions shook his body, he couldn't breathe. She pressed a button and after an eternity, someone came and gave him a muscle relaxant. Now he could feel the panic even more intense.

It smelled of vomit. Disgusted with himself, he tried to stand up. This attempt wasn't rewarded with success. Unless you wanted to call a new wave of nausea success. The healers left when they thought he'd calmed down. He hadn't. He had just given up the fight against the panic and the desperation.

From far away, he heard a voice. Only to realise that it was his own. He had distanced himself from himself and had to watch, how the Severus Snape who was lying in the sterile hospital bed fell apart in front of a former student.

Without being able to stop it, he felt how his body lost control, he screamed and begged and asked when it would please, _please _stop_. _

Incoherent syllables left his mouth. What was he saying? It was none of her damn business that his mother was a depressed wandless who was prone to sudden, violent outbursts. That his father had drunk everything they had owned. That he blamed himself for the death of Lily Evans and was unable to forgive himself. That he didn't hate Potter, but was scared of him and the green eyes full of hatred and defiance drove him insane. That he was only able to kill Dumbledore because the old man wanted a child to sacrifice itself.

With inhuman effort he did manage to sit up and disappear behind his hair and his arms. The monitor seemed to go mental with beeping. Severus buckled over, spat blood.

'Professor! Sir!' He wouldn't react. 'Severus...!?'

A hand was on his shoulder, giving slight pressure.

'Deep breaths. Close your eyes. Imagine you fly... You don't even need a broom. Really high and away from everyone. To the sea...'

She waited until his breathing was steady again.

It worked.


	3. Checkmate

_"Revolution has proven one thing; Many things can change, but not the people."_

(Karl Marx)

* * *

The wild-haired healer hurried quickly into the small room. There was no such thing as knocking here. Privacy was probably a luxury Severus had to go without for a long time. With an unreadable facial expression, the man named Winterbottom took notes into the file while swaying his head from side to side.

At some point, Granger babbled something about coffee and disappeared. The healer sat down, not without screeching the chair.

'I would like to be honest with you,' he started.

'Now that would be a change,' answered Severus dryly.

Winterbottom furrowed his brow and stared at him out of soft, dark-blue eyes. He did so for so long that Severus asked himself if the man was a Legilimens.

'It is a miracle that you are alive at all, Severus.'

Why did he think that he could use his first name without being allowed to do so? Did a good look into his insides give him automatic permission?

'Your heart stopped seven times.'

Well, at least the world knew that he had one. People always seemed to think he wasn't a human being at all.

_So much effort for something no one wanted_, thought Severus bitterly.

Winterbottom seemed to be able to read his mind.

'We had given up. Then it started beating again. When Harry Potter sacrificed himself, he managed to protect everyone present at the battle of Hogwarts. Well, those who hadn't died before. In this ward, there are many who are between life and death. Some are in a coma, others are in agony, but none will die.

He halted for a moment and scribbled some more into the file.

'Not even when they want to, Severus. I made a hormonal analysis. The results are... a knockdown. I have no idea how you survived the last year.'

Severus wasn't aware of there being anything wrong with his hormones.

'Every normal human being with those results would have dangled from his bedroom ceiling a long time ago.'

The Slytherin leaned his head on the wall behind him. Maybe he _did_ prefer lies.

'I have given you two separate, high-dose Selective Serotonin Re-uptake Inhibitors. One magical one, one Muggle one. It didn't make a difference. I can only imagine how you feel. There is nothing much I can do, you have to find a way out of there yourself. The more spells and potions we use on you in this fragile state, the higher the chance that you will end up a Squib.'

Severus released a hissing breath he didn't even know he was holding. He stared at his hands. They would probably never stop shaking. A potions master needed a steady hand. And the ability to concentrate. And a strong, stable magical core. Severus had none of those at the moment.

The monitor beeped again. A stabbing pain flashed through his lower body.

'Lie down,' the man commanded. 'Don't move.'

With a worried look, he murmured an elimination spell and watched a plastic bag fill up with blood and pus.

Carefully, he exposed a foot-shaped, ugly blue-black bruise on Severus' lower abdomen, casting more spells. Then he gave him two tablets and left the room again.

Granger replaced him immediately. _Why_? Potter had sentenced him to life anyway.

Staring at the wall above him, he asked her who hadn't survived the war. She seemed surprised but answered nonetheless. The information hit him unexpectedly hard. Lupin... He'd never liked the wolf, a coward who would do anything just to please the popular. But the thought that the last Marauder, Lily's last friend, had died believing that Severus was a traitor, hurt. Tonks, Creevey, Fred Weasley, Sprout, Vektor.

He regretted asking.

His eyes flickered over to her. She'd fallen asleep. Like a newborn who went to sleep whenever things were too overstimulating. She looked older and utterly exhausted.

His body throbbed painfully and he remembered the tablets he was holding. The glass of water he tried to reach, fell and shattered on the floor. His hands just weren't steady enough.

Tears of helplessness made their way up and he didn't have the strength to fight them.

The monitor beeped.

Severus made no noise.

At some point, she woke up, gathered the shards, got new water. Then she put her hand on his trembling shoulder and turned him on his back, gently.

'You need to take them. Those are strong painkillers with the nice side effect of making you extremely sleepy.'

He opened his hand: she took them and popped them into his mouth, helped him drink the water.

Severus choked, coughed, gagged.

'It's Muggle medicine,' she informed him, probably knowing that he was grateful for her tactfulness. Not with one word did she mention that he was currently unable to regain his composure.

'It takes about thirty minutes until they work.'

The damn monitor wouldn't calm down. Voldemort would have been beside himself with joy if he'd owned a utensil like that. Nothing escaped that thing.

In this very minute, Severus was the personified conglomerate of everything he despised.

The light went off and he thanked the gods that had never been there for him.

After half an hour, he fell into a light, fitful sleep.

_Macnair__ had Lily. There was blood everywhere. She died and no one closed the wide open, emerald eyes._

'WAKE UP! Severus. SEVERUS!'

Confused, he blinked his way into a reality the cruelty of which differed only insignificantly from the dream.

He was lying in a bright red puddle and the wound on his neck had reopened. The healer gave him a potion that would possibly steal the last spark of magic in him. It worked very fast though. He disappeared again and Severus woke properly.

'Deep breaths,' ordered Granger while rummaging in a bag. She lit candles and pressed a button on a cassette recorder. Interestingly enough, there were hardly any magical devices in the Intensive Care Unit. The patients didn't respond well to the magical vibes. Granger wasn't even allowed to bring her wand.

An organ concert filled the tiny white room.

'BWV 593,' announced Granger with a know-it-all expression. 'The theme is Vivaldi's.'

'I know,' answered Severus. What in _Merlin's_ name was she doing?

She put up a chess game. The brown eyes looked at him. Into him. It didn't often happen that someone looked _into_ his soul and seemed to like what they saw.

He broke the eye contact and cleared his throat.

She started. Spanish opening. He wasn't able to move the chess pieces, but he could give the correct coordinates.

He noticed that she quickly became quite heated and didn't want to let him win. He had to admit, he was grateful for that and beat her three out of four times. She was a worthy opponent. Obviously, she had played a lot with Ronald Weasley, the best chess player of Hogwarts. Staff included.

'I always thought, you were simply a nasty person,' she said thoughtfully. 'How could we have known that there were reasons for the odd behaviour, the cold glare, the anger...'

He had nothing much to answer. All answers would be unkind and probably unfair.

'Do not imagine that you _know_ me.', said Severus after a long pause, not quite able to banish the petulance from his voice.

The ghost of a smile flitted across her face.

'I don't have to imagine anything. Checkmate.'

Ward round. The healer looked overtired and overworked. He asked Granger if she couldn't do the washing, ointments and dressing. She nodded, frowning.

Snape was furious.

She started by giving him at least ten tablets and potions, each more bitter than the last. Usually, he was immune to the bad tastes. The nausea peaked, and he cradled his skull in order to prevent it from exploding.

A sequence of rather unpleasant images played back in his mind. He heard himself groan.

Under no circumstances would he allow her to wash him and put the creams on.

He screamed and yelled at her, accused her of ridiculous things. Feeling utterly helpless and humiliated, he asked her why she had never apologised for setting him on fire while he tried to save Potter, why the Golden Trio had always looked for reasons to _not_ trust him. Why he hadn't even been apologised to when he was knocked unconscious in her third year when he tried to save Potter from a mass murderer. How was he supposed to know that Black was... he wouldn't call him innocent. He had attempted to murder _him_ once. Severus made comments about her ridiculous behaviour, her inability let anyone get a word in edgeways in class, even about her appearance. Anything to make her go. Finally, he swore at her. She let herself fall into the chair, her tears shaming him.

'You don't have to do this Granger.'

She was still there.

'Fuck off. Get out. OUT!'

She stood up. And left.


	4. Undesired Visitors

_„I see the new coming, it is the old."_

(Bertold Brecht)

* * *

It was good that she had gone away. He stared at the empty seat. Yes, it was good. Better that way, for everyone involved.

The door opened. Oh yes, he wasn't allowed to be alone. Confidently and nonchalantly, Harry Potter walked in, just as if the room was his. The boy probably believed that he owned the world by now.

Hero of the nation, saviour of the wizarding world.

Severus' face showed no expression at all.

Amazingly, no scorn was in the green eyes, no defiance or contempt. He couldn't quite make out _what_ was in them, but it was something he'd never seen in Potter's eyes. Severus' shivering still wasn't under control, so he balled his fists. At least it wasn't visible that way.

Potter sat down. As if taking a seat was an important event that had to be honoured appropriately.

'Um... Hermione went home,' Potter informed him. 'I think she may need a break. She said she needs to sleep.'

The boy might as well have said that Granger had had enough of him. His repellent character, his coldness, his invidiousness.

Severus glared at him, but Potter was just annoyingly calm. Merlin, how could a human being be that self-satisfied? The boy rummaged through his pockets and brought out a little box with the initials L.E. and a small bottle of firewhisky.

'Open it once you are alone. And the whisky, well, it's not ideal, but it won't kill you.'

_Funny._

That was Potter as he lived and breathed and told other people what they should and shouldn't do.

The boy took a deep breath. Probably in order to mock him, he asked Severus how he _was_.

'I'm alive,' he answered bitterly. 'Do you expect gratitude?'

Potter hung his head.

'I don't expect anything,' he answered quietly. Completely out of character.

Severus' eyes flickered to the bottle. How much did he wish to be numb right now. Feel nothing.

'Give that to me,' he ordered, with an embarrassing rasp in his voice. What a weakling he was. Just like his father. Potter opened it and handed it to him carefully.

'I can do that myself,' replied Severus, a little angry now. He took a sip, actually a big gulp from that bottle. The alcohol warmed him, gave the desired effect. He was drunk immediately. Potter fidgeted on his seat.

'Did your relatives survive?' asked Severus, though not particularly interested. He'd heard nothing from the Dursleys throughout the whole year.

'Yeaaaah...,' answered Potter hesitantly. Severus didn't like the tone. He didn't answer and the boy obviously took that as a sign to keep talking. Potter asked for some of that whisky, thought the lack of a reaction meant yes.

At this very moment, he did not look like his father at all. Chewing his nails, scrutinising Severus' battered face and the small room and... not seeming happy about any of it.

'I haven't seen them for a year. And I don't want to, either.' Potter's face hardened while he waited for the malicious comment. It never came.

'Uncle Vernon has taken out a restraining order. I am not allowed to go near them or contact them in any way.'

Now Severus was surprised.

'What have you done to them?'

Rage flitted across Potter's face. And... hurt.

'I haven't done anything. They hate magic, always have. I lived in a cupboard for ten years and was their elf and if I didn't obey I got...' he stopped abruptly. His tone had been an accusing one.

A swearword escaped Severus' intoxicated lips and his hand went through his hair.

That made Potter laugh. James Potter would never have been able to utter such a bitter, humourless laugh. Life had spoilt him too much.

'I've got to go,' explained the boy. 'You'll be getting more visitors and... well... get well soon.'

Severus was alone. Probably only for a few minutes. Something _(someone) _was missing. No it wasn't.

He caressed the initials with his long, white fingers and opened the box. There were three things. A picture, a ripped out page from Lily's diary and a letter from Harry Potter. For some reason, he read that first. It was long, longer than anything Potter had ever presented in Potions class. Well written with good vocabulary and legible handwriting.

There were dozens of explanations, descriptions and... apologies about the events of all his school years. Severus found the energy to be angry. Angry with Dumbledore who seemed to have lured these damnable kids into all sorts of dangers. They had been tested from day one. Severus sighed and put the letter aside.

A picture of Lily. Happy and maybe fifteen years old, waving and smiling.

He put it back as if he'd burnt himself. He didn't read her words either. Yet. He put everything back and went to sleep instead.

When he woke, he felt sick to his stomach. If he didn't want to vomit all over his bed, he had to either press that button and get someone or try and get to the toilet himself. He decided on the latter. He swung, no, _lifted_ his legs from the bed and used every opportunity to support himself. The drip, in which he got caught a few times, had to come with him. But he made it. Almost insane from the pain, but he made it. He felt dirty, so he decided to take a shower.

_Take a shower_ was a euphemism for the agonising stunt he performed, but he made it. After a while, he decided that the shower, now almost unbearably hot, did not succeed in making him feel less dirty. He gave up and risked a glance into the mirror.

His left eye was still almost swollen shut, the right one blood-red. A deep gash decorated his hairline. He wondered if _he_ would be famous for a scar on his forehead. He highly doubted it.

Jagged lines crossed his body, the burnt skin was bright red and stood out from the rest. Should he be happy that they hadn't emasculated him? Not that it mattered.

A grey dressing gown hung on the door, so he put it on and shuffled back to the room.

His glance first fell on the two mugs of tea and then… He'd lost his mind. He had actually gone crazy. He himself sat on the chair, with grey hair, hooked nose and shabby suit. Severus staggered and everything went black. When he woke again, he was covered in the sticky cream and laid in his bed.

His father sat in front of him. The last time he had seen him, ten years ago, he hadn't been able to utter one coherent sentence. He'd smelt of alcohol, cigarettes and sweat. Now he just smelled of cigarettes.

'There is nothing to take,' said Severus through clenched teeth. The thought that he was now poorer than his father, that he didn't own a single book or a robe, depressed him.

Ten years ago, his father had asked him for help. And Severus had offered board and lodging. Stupid, yes. But it had been his father who had pleaded, ill and poor. Three days later, he had disappeared. With half of Severus' savings. He never came back.

Now the old man looked sad. Close to crying actually. What a pathetic little creature.

'I know, Severus. I was there. There is nothing left from our house.'

_Our house._ Tobias hadn't paid a penny for the mortgage. Severus had bought it just before the compulsory auction. Why he had done that puzzled him. Certainly not in order to cherish the good memories.

His father tried to apologise. But he never managed to bring himself to say it. Another trait that he had passed on to his son. Severus could count the number of times he truly had asked someone for forgiveness on one hand. Lily…

Maybe Tobias thought that there was still gold in his vault? Severus _had_ no vault.

'Get out of my sight,' he bellowed, satisfied that his voice sounded icy. 'Go!'

When the man made no attempt to move, Severus underlined his words by throwing a glass of water in his direction. Bad aim, hands not steady enough. It fell to the floor and, finally, the unwanted visitor rose from the seat.

'You have become like your mother,' he breathed. 'I'm sorry.'

Severus could feel his expression contorting and turning into a grimace of hatred. The door slammed and he flinched. Damnit.

_DAMNIT._


	5. The Presence

_"It is tempting, if the only __tool_ you have is a _hammer_, treat everything as if it were a nail."

(Abraham Maslow)

* * *

The next weeks were grey. So grey that Severus wouldn't be able to remember them years later. Every day was exactly like the previous one had been, he was unable to think clearly at all. He knew that the healing process had come to a complete halt.

It was Minerva babysitting now. He minded her presence the least. He owed nothing to her; in fact, she was convinced that she owed _him_, so he let her be. Not that he had a choice in the matter anyway.

She sat there all day, unfolding the comfy seat when it was time to sleep. He didn't talk to her. He couldn't, didn't want to. He distanced himself from her, the world and himself. Nothing mattered any more. Wistfully, he awaited every tablet, some of which promised sleep and freedom from pain. When he did sleep, he was haunted by the most bizarre dreams.

_It was Christmas. Severus sat in a wheelchair next to his mother. He looked down on himself and realised that he didn't have any arms. Or legs. In front of him sat a two-year-old Harry Potter. Weeping silently, the boy stuffed his own vomit into his mouth and gave Severus pleading looks. _

He wanted to help, but he couldn't move. In front of him stood a feast that the real Eileen had never been able to prepare. She rammed forkful after forkful into Severus' mouth. He wanted to get up, his bladder was full and hurting, but she wouldn't help him. He screamed and begged, but she was laughing a high-pitched, lunatic laugh that frightened him. At some point he lost control and Eileen threw food at him. Her face had turned grotesque and out of her mouth slipped unspeakable obscenities.

Whimpering, he woke up in a puddle of blood and urine. As a child, his bladder had been his weakest organ. Had caused unbelievable problems. His mother was driven mad by the chronic, sordid enuresis. She had taken it as a personal offence. She had thrashed him, punished him, locked him out. Once, she'd left him in a pigsty and told him he had to stay there if he wasn't a _good boy._ He'd tried, but never succeeded, he didn't know how.

When he was sixteen, he had invented a potion that stabilised the detrusor muscle and he had never had problems again. But since… the Shack incident, he would wear nothing but black.

The Death Eaters seemed to have known where to hit him. It was quite interesting how one could destroy the last shred of dignity and self-respect with a single kick.

He didn't know who turned him around and changed the sheets: _never_, never did he want to find out.

Severus was not addressable, not responsive for several weeks. Grey turned into black and he sank deeper, hardly noticing his surroundings any more.

Four o'clock in the morning. It was dark and something was rustling right next to him. Then, a candle was lit and seconds later he felt a thin, soft hand on his. Hazel eyes found his.

The monitor quietened down. Instead of red, green light filled the screen. She smiled and stroked his palm. Suddenly, he felt an odd, unfamiliar sensation and looked at his hand.

'Do you think I am made of stone?' he muttered. She took her fingers away immediately, then lit more candles and got something from her bag.

'I've brought something for you… She unfolded a black shirt and black trousers and turned red when she got to the black underwear. 'Self-fitting. Now, I would have preferred canary-yellow or purple with green dots.'

He grimaced and she laughed. It sounded like chimes. Then she suddenly stopped.

'Black is the colour of grief.'

He didn't know what to answer. Certainly not the actual reason for his choice of colour.

'Why are you doing this?' he asked instead.

She hesitated a little and ran a hand through the messy, bushy hair. It got stuck. For some peculiar, odd reason, he noticed that little fact.

'Minerva said you called for me.' He didn't remember. It was embarrassing. 'Besides,' she continued, 'I wanted you to feel like a human being again. You need any help?'

No. He shook his head. To feel like a human being, he had to be able to dress himself. She stood up, wanting to fetch tea.

He actually managed it, and it made a difference. With a lot of effort, he lifted himself into a chair and waited. She came back with two cups of perfect tea and rummaged through her bag again. 'This is Luna's,' said Hermione. 'It's a simple question-answer game for Ravenclaws. The quality of the answer decides if and how much the point-glass is filled.'

What a dramatic difference. He no longer lay, but sat. With bearable pain and bearable company and normal clothes. The painkillers were working well.

There hadn't been many such moments in his life; hence, he enjoyed this one.

Number of ingredients in the Ageing Potion. She knew it, he was faster. They both struggled with the Goblin wars, but she was better. The questions became more difficult and they were both completely enthralled.

'What do you call the process of turning sunlight into electricity?'

'Photovoltaics.' His glass filled. He was ahead.

'How does an institution develop?'

She pondered, he answered.

'Reciprocated typification of habitualised actions.'

His glass filled until it was full. He had won. Satisfied, Severus leaned back and folded his arms. At least he still had his intellect. It was the first time in… months that he hadn't felt useless, helpless or at anyone's mercy.

Healer Winterbottom stuck his head through the door. He pretended to be annoyed about the obviously sleepless night, the clothes, and the fact that Severus wasn't in his bed. In fact, he was ecstatic about the numbers on the monitor and the lack of any alarms.

The whole day was the most agreeable Severus had had in a while. Without desperation, tears, screaming or nightmares. He could even cope with the pain. Happiness was not anything that came easily to Severus and whenever it did, it never stayed. So, he lived it when it was there, not pretending or fooling himself that it would be a permanent situation.

When it got late, she unfolded the seat into a bed and went to sleep, close to him.

Probably a sign that he had decided to stay.

'The house was so lonely,' she admitted. 'I sold it.'

'I couldn't do anything to help your parents.' His voice was quiet and slightly trembling.

'I know that…'

When she fell asleep, he lit a candle and got a book from the shelf. The healers had been so kind as to provide him with some. Until now, he had not opened a single one.

It was _Crime and Punishment_. What a coincidence. He put it aside hastily, watched her shallow, fast breathing. It told him that she was dreaming. She moaned.

'Miss Granger...?!

'Hermione!'

It sounded unfamiliar and yet right. She woke up.

'Nightmare,' Hermione admitted with a choked voice, still sounding sleepy. 'I can't remember…' The candle went out. He wanted to stretch his hand out to her: just as he was pulling it back, because frankly, it was a ridiculous thing for him to do, she grabbed it.

So great was her determination that her seat rolled right next to his bed. She was right next to him, holding him in a way he had never been held. His heart stopped for a second. Literally. Then he responded, hungrily and desperately.

She was already asleep again, but he himself would not find sleep tonight. For hours, he just lay there, enjoying the unknown feeling of warmth and trust.

He had no intention of thinking where that might lead to, what road they were travelling.

He. Lived. Now.

* * *

Thanks goes again to my beta whitehound. She is fast and... yes it is fanfiction, but "professional" is the right word. Awesome job. Any mistakes would not be due to her, but to me overseeing the suggestions.


	6. is short

_"If I had succeeded I should have been crowned with glory, but now I'm trapped.__"_

(Raskolnikov in 'Crime and Punishment')

* * *

Two days passed without unpleasant incidents. Two days. No unwanted visitors, no relapses, no arguments, no bad news.

Hermione really did make a lot of effort. Severus had absolutely no idea how on earth he deserved it, but she kept at it. Forced him to get up, brought good music and good wine. No elf-wine, of course, she would say with a wrinkled nose.

It was cheesy and kitschy and yet so enjoyable. Real and earnest.

She admired him, so she said. For his strength and his loyalty and his intellect. She would debate with him for hours about defence spells and chess movements, the ministry and classical music, potions and charms. Hermione Granger was gifted. Severus had first thought that she simply had a photographic memory, but no deeper understanding, but he'd been wrong. Something… seemed to develop between the two and yet, he couldn't ponder over it. Not yet. Until now it had been innocent. She was largely responsible for his improving health. She was even trying to convince him that he owed nothing to anyone.

'One day you will maybe understand that you have done more for the world than it has done for you.'

Those were her last words before she turned and left to bring yet more goods to improve this room and his situation.

Minutes later, two Aurors stormed the little room. Acting as if he was a real danger right now, and as if they were just the most important human beings on earth. Winterbottom protested so much that they _S__tupefied_ him.

A document was held under his nose.

* * *

**Order of Summary Prosecution**

_SEVERUS TOBIAS SNAPE_

_ (born January 9th 1960 in Greater Manchester) _

_single, unemployed and of no fixed abode,_

is accused of:

the premeditated murder of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore on June 4th 1997. Furthermore he is accused of failure to assist a person in danger in 53 cases, as well as aiding and abetting the murder of James Potter and Lily Potter (nee Evans) (cf. WLC 3. §879 para 1-3, §266 para 15 ss 3a, §711 para 8-12).

Counsel for the prosecution: Mercurius Marshall

Witnesses for the Prosecution: Zeugen Amycus Carrow, Matteo Crabbe, Neville Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, Walden Macnair, Harry James Potter.

Detention while awaiting trial is to be instituted without further delay.

This document is legally effective without signature.

* * *

Severus Snape stayed calm. He was suddenly very cold. Were the Dementors already waiting in front of the door? Where was Hermione? He would have liked to see her one last time, but of course he would not be allowed. A short-haired Auror with too many muscles stalked towards him and asked to see the Dark Mark. Severus raised his sleeve and showed it.

'March him off!'

His hands were magically tied behind his back and Severus let it happen. He had no wand, no… nothing.

The presence had been short.

Resigned and grey-faced, he let them transport him to Azkaban. Walking was still difficult, but he didn't let them notice. He wanted to get out of the hospital, wanted to prevent anyone _(her)_ seeing him like that. Yes, it was better that way.

His cell was tiny, but he was alone. There was a little hole in the corner, nothing else. And it stank. Luckily, he didn't see any other inmates, he could only hear an old man next to him singing. 'We are all all going to heaven, we are all all going to heaven…' Again and again. Severus doubted it.

He declined the food, he knew who made it and what was in it, thank you very much. For two days he sat there, without even looking up. His lips were chapped, his throat dry and sore, the black eyes lacked life. His dirty nails kept digging deeper and deeper into his flesh, but he was collected.

Dementors patrolled in front of his cell, going back and forward always in the same rhythm. There had been a song called 'There are no chamberpots in Azkaban' which had taken exactly that rhythm as a base.

The cell door opened and it took a while until he recognised who stood there. It closed loudly and they both sat down. Right next to him.

Chocolate was stuffed into his mouth, water was passed to him. And he drank. The world was a little clearer now. Oh, Hermione looked awful. Skinny, with dark rings under her eyes.

Severus could remember the other woman only vaguely. She had mahogony coloured, tightly tied back hair, strange mahogony coloured eyes and a strict glance.

'This is Jaina Johnson. Your lawyer…,' said Hermione. Severus nodded. The woman shook his hand and he was somewhat grateful. That was how humans were treated.

'It looks serious,' she said in a deep voice, 'but not hopeless.'

Severus did not want to hope.

'There are witnesses for the defence who want to testify. Potter, Longbottom, Lovegood are witnesses for the prosecution, but they will not incriminate you further. On your side will be Minerva McGonagall, Ginevra Molly Weasley, Ronald Weasley, Molly Weasley, Arthur Weasley and Horace Slughorn. Unfortunately the number of witnesses for the defence has to equal the number of witnesses for the prosecution or there would have been more on your side.

"Harry James Potter wanted to use Pensieve Memories as testimony, but they were declared to be not legally binding. Especially because he has to testify _against_ you, not _for_ you. The hardship case application that would have allowed you to be in hospital until the proceedings was also declined. But the urgency claim was accepted. The charges will be presented in fourteen days. Mr Snape… can you hear me?' Severus massaged his temple. 'A little… slower. Please.'

'Your testimony will not be given with the help of Veritaserum. They say you are immune.'

Idiots. No one was immune to Veritaserum. Whenever Voldemort had made him use it, he had managed to swap the vials for tap water.

'Your testimony will be written. With a truth quill.' She passed him the golden writing utensil and a whole roll of parchment. 'Thank you,' was all he could manage.

His lawyer bid farewell and left. Hermione came even closer to him. 'She is really good,' she said hesitantly. 'The judge… wants everything from you. Personal, detailed biography, a statement about every decision you have ever made, detailed written comments on every charge. Everything about Voldemort and Crabbe and Macnair…'

He closed his eyes, didn't want to see her. What had this girl done to deserve to sit here. He should never, ever have got involved with her in any way.

'You've got to fight, Severus.' Those words were so completely and utterly ridiculous that he almost laughed. He was going crazy.

'I can't.'

She was angry; fuming, in fact. She screamed and called him names, probably to ignite some fighting spirit. Not even the most hated word relieved him of his numbness. She even shook him, as if that would help.

'Detention in solitary confinement is only for those awaiting trial. Do you want to spend the rest of your life here? With Death Eaters? In this cell? Can you fucking hear me?

She shook him again until his teeth rattled. His apathy terrified her.

'You know what they'll do to you?' With a shaking hand, he made a gesture ordering her to stop.

'I'll leave water and chocolate,' she said with a distraught voice. 'I'm allowed to come back in thirteen days. Then the judge and the jury will want to read your testimony and I can stay a little longer.' He swallowed hard. Hermione stood up, kissed his dirty head and left, too.

His head was suddenly very heavy and he let it sink into his arms. In order not to chatter his teeth, he clenched them. A Dementor came by again, he could feel it. The very few good memories he possessed seemed even further away, pale. He didn't want to lose them.

The quill felt heavy and unfamiliar. Truth quills were heavily enchanted. They would only write the truth: every wrong word, every lie was either crossed out or not written down at all. Dark magic. The Ministry obviously didn't make any distinctions.

He looked at it for a second, then threw it out of the cell.


	7. The whole truth

_"Free are those who can dance in chains."_

(Friedrich Nietzsche)

* * *

A Dementor floated right in front of his door. It looked as if it grinned. Dementors did not grin. Its breathing was loud and unnaturally steady. It paused when it saw the quill on the floor. Then reached out a bony hand and the quill flew upwards until the Dementor grasped it.

A second later, Severus heard a sound that reminded him strongly of a belt cutting through the air. Instinctively he lifted his arm. His reflexes were still those of a Death Eater; he caught it. Had he been standing, the violence of the throw would have knocked him backwards.

Frozen and oddly wondering, he stood and watched the Dementor float away.

Some hours later, the cell was filled with rumpled-up paper. Some of it was covered in readable handwriting, some of it in calligraphy so bad that he would have hexed any student for it.

Some of it was perforated.

All of it was useless.

He broke the chocolate in twelve even bits and those again in three. And then took one bit. When he sat back down, he had to resist the urge to rock back and forward. _Shit_. How did Black live through this for twelve years? Posthumously, he had to take his hat off for the old cur. Maybe the knowledge that he was innocent had helped him through it.

Severus was not innocent.

His glance flickered again to the quill.

He knew where he should begin. They wanted to know, they should know. It didn't matter anyway. And they wouldn't temper justice with mercy.

If the Dementors kissed him, would he still be protected by Potter's Charm? Would he sit here soulless for a hundred years? Did he _have_ a soul?

If he wrote due to fear or hope, he didn't know. But he wrote. He was no coward.

Severus started with the earliest memories.

When he was a little boy, five years old and already convinced that he was just utterly despicable, his mother would sit with him by the fire and tell, lost in thought, about the wizarding world, the Dementors, the Dark Lord. She painted him as the strongest and cleverest man in the world. Someone the mere sight of whom would take one's breath away. Told him about his magical abilities, the force of attraction. Severus listened, sucked up the information like a sponge. Eileen promised that if he was a good boy, he would one day be allowed to meet him, maybe even be accepted as a follower. She had once managed, but the bad Ministry caught her, took her wand, took her money. It was their fault she had to marry a dirty Muggle. She'd been excluded from the wizarding world, was even useless to the Dark Lord. Wandless and in a dirty marriage. She told Severus that his blood was dirty and he had to work hard to make up for that.

Severus believed this. He was five years old.

Many years later Severus found out, that his mother wasn't merely following Voldemort but actually involved herself in some attempted murder and got caught. She was lucky that they didn't bring her to Askaban.

At seven, he mastered the brewing of more than twenty poisons; they scared him, yet he was obsessed with them.

Eileen taught him; she even showed some scraps of affection towards him when he remembered everything. In those moments he wished that she wouldn't hit him with his own wet clothes the next morning, until the scars on his back reopened, until he screamed and begged and promised to be better. He wished she wouldn't call him a coward because he hid from her, or tried to run away. Over and over and again.

His father heard and saw nothing. He went to bed early, slept in late and was drunk in the meantime. The house permanently stank of cigarettes, sweat and urine. There was never enough food, but there was always booze. The carpets were old and mouldy, most of the furniture had been sold. Severus' clothes were always second hand, not that he minded, but he would have liked them to fit at least.

On most days, his school desk was empty. He hated school and the pupils hated him. He wasn't even allowed to show them his abilities, frighten them, earn some respect that way, but they sensed his difference and treated him like an outsider. And he was suspected a lot. Most of the time rightfully so. He had learnt early how to steal food. He never got caught, but they blamed him anyway. He was from a bad house with bad parents. His reputation had been ruined from the outset. His father had collected him. Pissed.

By now, Severus had forgotten why he was writing everything down. He was completely absorbed by the tormenting memories. The quill corrected gaps, nudged him to add ugly details.

At the age of nine he met Lily. So pretty and innocent. And a witch. Her flaming red hair, the humour, the absence of any dark qualities bedazzled him. She was always happy, friendly, open. She glowed. She didn't seem to be disgusted by his appearance, never did she make remarks about his ill-fitted clothes, about the obvious signs of poverty and neglect.

He was eleven. A Slytherin. She distanced herself from him in the first school days, his house scared her. Not that he could blame her when he looked at some of his housemates, and yet, he thought it was unfair to be passed judgement on entirely by the age of eleven. The hat wasn't omniscient, the sorted were children.

The Dark Lord had financed his whole education. Books, robes, everything. He'd never met him, but his followers. They impressed him with their heavy robes, their skills, their mask-like faces. Severus was obsessed with the books the Dark Lord had passed on to Severus. And he felt honoured. Worthwhile. Only much later would he learn that the Dark Lord had used those methods to win him as a follower, maybe he had known that it wouldn't be easy. It worked well.

Lily distanced herself even further, especially after he called her a... After the episode Potter had seen in the Pensieve he had hidden in the forest for two days before he gathered all his courage to apologise. She didn't accept and they never spoke again.

That was the day his world fell apart. There was no reason to join the light side any more. And fight for the rest of his life on the side of Potter and his friends. He wasn't welcome anyway and Severus owed Voldemort and his followers a lot. He lived off them. They had saved him and his family from homelessness, had paid his whole education and... and that was the most important point; had made him feel that he was worth the money.

At eighteen, he received the mark. He was branded, like a cow, and regretted it the moment it happened.

Nineteen. His first mission. He was supposed to steal a dark book. Darker than dark. As dark as Voldemort's soul by night. One of the most guarded books in the wizarding world, the grimoire written by Salazar Slytherin. By now, he was a gifted thief, there were no problems.

Then, for months, he brewed questionable potions for Death Eaters.

His second mission was one of the reasons he was here now, the reason why he was accused and the reason why he accused himself. Aiding and abetting the murder of James Potter and Lily Potter. The ministry was right.

The parchment was scratched and perforated at those parts, the handwriting hard to make out. But those memories were, thanks to the Dementors, crystal clear. They cut his mind like knives while he wrote them down shakily. While he wrote about the blackness that had become part of him on that day and had never let go again.

Days passed and he never slept longer than a few minutes at a time. The parchment was nearly finished and he had reached the last years. The Unbreakable Vow, his word to Dumbledore. And Dumbledore's ability to make him do anything and let it look like a second chance.

And Harry Potter. The green eyes. He caused them to look defiant and angry because he deserved it.

His writing was chaotic when he described how Voldemort killed Charity Burbage in front of his eyes and fed her to Nagini. Charity, the older lady with the queen's accent. She had once opened his eyes to the Muggle world, made him familiar with Bach and Händel and Dostoevsky. With Marlon Brando and the Internet, Immanuel Kant and Stephen King and yes, Severus had been impressed. The Muggles were developing, they had changed so much in the past decades and the wizards stayed put.

Slowly but surely, the Muggles were finding ways of being just as powerful, only with different methods.

His last year. The screaming and butchering. The Death Eaters were ruthless, sadistic. They murdered, raped, mutilated anyone who actively opposed them. Obsessed with the idea of ruling the world.

More obsessed with a child.

Severus could not understand anymore how someone wanted to be the slave of a maniac whose only goal seemed to be the hunt and murder of a schoolboy.

No one seemed to see how absurd and laughable that was. The Malfoys maybe, but by then, it was too late.

Two days later, Severus was finished. The last thing he'd written was the revenge of the Death Eaters. Oh, the quill made him write down all the details. It had been exhausting and unsettling and damn hard, but no one cared. There it was again, this terrible self-pity.

At least he hadn't lost his feeling for time. It was the night before day thirteen.

He never read his records even though he knew they were partially incoherent and illegible. Overly tragic and dramatic. Only the heartbreaking poem and the tears were missing. But it was the truth.

Records were public property. The idea of Rita Skeeter publishing it in the _Prophet_ or interviewing him almost made him rip them apart. Almost.

It was his only hope. He did not want to spend the rest of his life in a cell with Macnair. The mere thought nearly knocked him out with fear. Not that he had great hopes of the Ministry, but no one should say he hadn't fought. He'd _always _fought and the quill was his witness.

He rolled the parchment, put it away as far as possible. Severus was worn-out, hungry and by now clinically depressed. His extremities seemed to be made of lead, every movement needed a great amount of self-discipline and effort. His mind was surrounded by cottonwool, his vision narrowed, no clear thought was possible.

When he opened his eyes it took a while to find his way back into reality. At the other end of the cell, meaning almost within hand's reach, sat two creatures, grey and blurry. He blinked and saw that it was Hermione and his lawyer.

They went through his writings; he would have liked to jump up and rip them out of their hands. Instead, he managed a rasping sound. At least they were polite enough to notice him and quit reading.

Johnson put it all together, even the crumpled-up bit, and called a guard. Then stood up, shook his hand, spoke some words he couldn't quite make out and left to hand over everything to the judge and the jury. It would be hours before it was all over.

'I'm proud of you, Severus...' Big brown eyes found the sunken black ones. Something hard broke inside him, like a furuncle and the intensity of his emotions duplicated, multiplied, became unbearable. His insides were turning into hot liquid.

The sound that escaped his throat would have been more fitting for a dying dog than for a human being. Thin arms were wrapped around him, he felt her heart hammering against him. Merlin, Severus was _SCARED_. He buried his head in his arms. There was no stopping, despite the battle he fought with himself. She whispered comforting words that didn't comfort. Convulsions shook his writhing body, tears splashed on the stone floor.

Hours later, the door was opened again, two guards waited for him to get up.

_Get a hold of yourself, Severus._

They picked him up, almost carried him.

It was time.

* * *

This chapter would have been spiked with canon issues, nevermind spelling and grammar mistakes if it wasn't for the wonderful whitehound. Thank you again.


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